


Friend and Enemy and Other

by days4daisy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amnesia, Blood, Blow Jobs, M/M, Past Torture, Prostitution, Scars, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-28
Updated: 2015-11-28
Packaged: 2018-05-03 21:22:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5307281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/days4daisy/pseuds/days4daisy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I'll find someone special for you,” Crowley assures him. “Just tell me what you’re after. You can trust me.”</p><p>The stranger smiles; Crowley smiles too. Success!</p><p>“You,” the man replies.</p><p>Crowley’s smile turns puzzled. “…Me?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Friend and Enemy and Other

**Author's Note:**

> Combined two AU ship meme prompts: "Crowstiel + amnesia" and "Crowstiel + prostitute/client AU."
> 
> Enjoy!

Crowley scowls when the car approaches. Beige rust bucket of a Continental. Geezer, likely. 

Age doesn’t matter if the cash is legit, of course. But it's a hard job. He likes giving the litter shiny things to play with. Still, a buck’s a buck. Crowley pushes off the corner of the old warehouse. 

The Continental is the only ride within earshot. It's dark under this highway overpass. Demons prefer shadowed crossroads these days.

Crowley squints when the driver’s window slides down. Not the occupant he expected. Good-looking business sort, save the odd trench coat. Right around 40, if Crowley wagered a guess. Not a gray hair in sight. Lucky gent. And those eyes, well…blue as the sky. From what Crowley remembers. He and the pack don’t see much daylight these days.

Crowley half-smiles and places a cordial hand on the door. The stranger eyes it, but he doesn’t tell Crowley to move.

“Lost, friend?” Crowley asks. Code.

“I’m meeting someone.” The correct answer.

“Bit late for this part of town,” Crowley observes. “Rough lot.”

“You seem to manage.”

Crowley’s smile widens. “Yes, well.” He curls his hand over the door, drumming along the inner siding. “Why don't I help you find some nicer company? You a lady or gent type?” He cocks his head. “Both? Neither?” 

The man’s eyes narrow. Crowley chuckles. “Man, then. No shame in it. What’s your fancy? Age? Hair, skin? Eyes - the eyes sure can hook you, can’t they?”

“Yes,” the client says. Not much for conversation, apparently. But he is attentive enough, gazing up at Crowley. Quiet and polite is better than the majority of the lot who make use of their services.

Crowley takes his spiel down a notch. He folds his arms against the car door. “If you’ll permit me - it doesn't seem like you do this often.”

“No,” the stranger says. He looks away.

Ah, a newbie. Crowley puts on his most gentle airs. “I know the reputation of my race. You have every right to be hesitant. But let me assure you, our pack is fully bound and secured.” He rolls back a sleeve and exposes his wrist. A ward is carved into his skin, stitched over in witch binding. The man’s eyes fix on it.

“This is our means of survival now,” Crowley explains. “We make honest money, and we earn our keep. We’re all just trying to make our way in the world, aren’t we?”

Perhaps he’s pouring it on a bit thick. But he has not lied, just emphasized the bright side of their fate. The optimism, the work ethic. It’s much neater to omit the more gory details of their history. Blood, death, vessels mutilated and bound. Really, who wants to speak of those times anymore?

Crowley has a hunch he’s dealing with someone who needs a touch of emotion. He’s proven right when the stranger meets his eyes again. Unsure, but intrigued. “I won’t ask you to trust me, that would be…hilarious, frankly,” Crowley admits. “But I will ask you to trust my business. Jeopardizing our clientele jeopardizes us. We can’t afford that.”

“There are still many incidents,” the man acknowledges.

Crowley nods. They’ve lost members of their own litter. Young ones, dragged off the street at night. Eyes gouged out with salt-crusted knives. Drowned in vats of holy water. There was a time when they would have scoffed off such torture attempts. But now, power sealed, it takes little to break a demon. Pitiful, really.

“I'll find someone special for you,” Crowley assures him. “Just tell me what you’re after. You can trust me.”

The stranger smiles; Crowley smiles too. Success!

“You,” the man replies.

Crowley’s smile turns puzzled. “…Me?”

“Yes.”

Crowley laughs kindly. It’s not the first time he’s run into this problem. He endeared himself to the fellow, rather than endearing him to the prospect of a deal. “I misrepresented,” Crowley offers as apology. “You see, I’m not a member of our outgoing roster. But if my type is what you’re after? Oh, we have some marvelous options. Better!” Crowley says this with mirth. Better than himself is impossible, clearly. But anything for the sale. “We have one fine bloke by the name of Brady-”

“I want you,” the stranger says. “I’m willing to pay extra.”

“I’m afraid I’m still not-”

“What’s this about paying extra?” Yes, of course. Any mention of money, and who wanders along? The queen herself.

Abbadon yanks Crowley from the window and inserts herself. Crowley grumbles but backs away respectfully. Abaddon is always swayed by money. But him, go out as a bloody whore? Seriously?

It’s not that the task is unworthy. He believes in what they do. It makes it easier to sell, not only to their clients but to the litter. They’re all doing their part to keep the family alive. 

But the business sphere is where Crowley excels. The record keeping, the money tracking, the schmoozing, the selling. He mans the corner, looks out for trouble.

Besides, the stranger may be bluffing. How much cash can a guy in such a ragged coat have anyway?

Abaddon clicks over in her five-inch heels. “You’re going,” she says.

“Abaddon-”

Abaddon opens the envelope of cash in her hands. Even Crowley has no words. A full night with a demon from their pack tends to run a couple hundred. A thousand, for their most popular sellers. 

This? Thousands, tied together in a neat, pink rubberband. 

The money makes Crowley wary. Why in the world would anyone offer so much for the front man? Unless the stranger is here specifically for him. For something no one will ask questions about later.

“This is rent," Abaddon hisses. "For everyone-”

“Yes, I know.” Blasted wards.

Once upon a time, demons did not care about each other, or anything. That was back before the extermination. Before the Gates of Hell closed. The binds made demons like humans. They have to eat and sleep now, and they feel things. Nasty, mortal things. Responsibility. Guilt.

“I’ll call you if…” Crowley trails off. If it’s as bad as that purse implies, he won’t be calling anytime soon. Abaddon nods. She knows.

Crowley sucks in a breath as he returns to the Continental. “Passenger side?” he asks. The man nods. Crowley swallows and circles around front. With one last look at Abaddon, he climbs inside.

***

To call the man's apartment threadbare would be kindness. It is sparse, and what little furniture exists is dust-crusted and tattered. Blue and white covers are bunched at the bottom of the bed. Crowley cringes. 

It’s not that he’s used to opulence. Ever since he woke in this new form, he has existed in whatever space is most accommodating. A room shared by six or seven others, wrapped in his own coat at night. His share of the profit goes to food and the maintenance of his persona. For himself, more than the rest, appearance is everything. He is the one who sells the deals. It’s his job to paint a pretty picture for humans willing to splurge on bridge and tunnel demon-whores.

This place doesn't match the wealth Crowley witnessed on the street corner. Crowley feels a pang of unease. This cash dump is not something the stranger could afford. No, he saved the money specifically for this moment. For Crowley.

He covers his anxiousness with a chuckle. “Nice place.” 

The man's eyes are unnervingly still. Crowley clears his throat. “Well then. What can I do for you, love?” 

He gets a twitch at this, a downward tug of the client’s mouth. “Come now,” Crowley coaxes. He crosses the room and stands directly in front of the one who holds his fate. “You paid an awful sum for me, and I don’t even know what to call you. 'Sir?' 'Sweetheart?' Or are you one of those ‘master’ types?”

“Castiel.”

“Castiel,” Crowley echoes. “interesting name.”

“You’ve heard it before?”

Crowley reaches through his short memory, a reel erased upon his capture. Years have passed since Crowley was bound. He has made many new memories. But none involve anyone named Castiel. “I have not,” he says. “Should I have?”

The man, Castiel, shakes his head. “No,” he replies. “It’s not a common name.”

Crowley shrugs. “Better that way. You're one of a kind.” He places hands on Castiel’s elbows and nuzzles lips to his chin. “What can I do for you, Castiel?” He frowns when Castiel backs away from him. 

Castiel takes Crowley's hands and peels back the sleeves of his coat, exposing the circle sigils carved into his wrists. The white, puffed scars are stitched through with black thread. Castiel draws his hands upward to examine the marks more closely.

“They healed long ago,” Crowley says.

Castiel stays silent as he drags his thumbs across the marks. What a strange man.

Crowley tilts his head. Perhaps he’s over-thought this situation? Maybe this isn’t about revenge. Maybe the man truly fell for Crowley’s kindness? Hard to blame him. Crowley is quite charming. 

And if Crowley had to find himself in such a predicament? Well, he could have drawn a far shorter straw than this.

“Have you seen demon warding before, Castiel?” he asks.

Castiel nods. “Yes, but not applied in this manner. The black thread-”

“Raven wing, I’m told,” Crowley says. “Witchcraft of the Grand Coven. Nasty business, but necessary after the Gates of Hell were closed. Our power was diminished, but we were still strong enough to threaten. The decision was made to bind the survivors.”

“You speak of this freely.”

Crowley shrugs. “Fact of life. I wear the evidence on my vessel, as you can see.” 

Castiel’s frown deepens. His thumbs reverse-circles over the sigils. 

Crowley smiles. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you pitied me.”

“I find these measures extreme,” Castiel mutters. “I know what you are. But dark magic comes with a price-”

Crowley chuckles. “Is this why you purchased me, Castiel? To coddle me like a wounded pup?” He pulls his hands from Castiel’s and slides them under his suit jacket. He feels Castiel’s back through his dress shirt. Firm and strong, bridged like a friggen statue. 

Crowley kisses between the folds of his shirt collar. “Or may I be your proper whore?”

“Neither,” Castiel says, but his voice is softer, less certain.

Crowley lets Castiel feel the curl of his smirk on his skin. “Come, love,” he croons.

Castiel stiffens. Crowley feels the breath catch in his throat. 

His beard rasps a trail of pink scratches to Castiel’s jaw. Castiel rolls his arms back, and Crowley pushes both jackets from him. The two garments settle on the ground with a dull thud.

Crowley lifts his head for Castiel’s lips, but Castiel steps back. “You,” he says.

Crowley chuckles but obliges him. He removes his coat and folds it over the bed’s metal foot board. He follows with his suit jacket. In his black shirt and gray tie, he extends his hands. “More?” he asks.

Castiel nods, silent. An odd bird.

Crowley loosens his tie’s knot and eases it from around his collar. He takes his time with the shirt, catching Castiel's gaze as he plucks every button open. The garment falls open, and he lets it slide from his arms. Exposed to the waist, he smiles. "More?"

Castiel shakes his head ‘no.’ His eyes fix on the binds sliced and threaded into Crowley’s chest. Old, fading scars stitched with raven wing. The 'Y’ begins at each shoulder and lines from his chest to the edge of his pants. Smaller wards, matching the circles on his wrists, mark the sides of his neck. Castiel’s distress is evident, lips parted in alarm.

“These have healed too, Castiel,” Crowley says. He keeps his voice light, trying to hold on to the moment. 

To be honest, it’s been years since he thought back to his vessel’s binding. He would prefer not to remember the violent convulsions of his spirit’s death. Chained and bloody, screaming into the darkness. Hazy, those memories. Like everything before it; the years, the centuries, evaporating like summer rain.

“Your back too?”

Crowley nods. He turns and shows Castiel his back. A matching Y-ward starts at his shoulders and carves down his spine. These scars were the most painful, from what he can recall. The others drew curses. These brought tears and screams into the shadows. 

Funny to know his spirit is broken but not remember what that spirit was.

He turns back around. “All have their scars, Castiel. Mine are just visible. Do not pity me.”

“I don’t pity you.” Castiel's tone takes on a sharpness that Crowley finds intriguing. 

He lifts his brows. “Do you find me ugly, Castiel?”

“No.” A warning snarl.

Crowley grins and crosses the distance between them. “There’s no shame in it.” He stands before his client, head cocked, observing. “I’m damaged goods, I’m afraid. If you wish to call off this game, I’m sure Abaddon will offer a partial re-”

He knows he’s riled Castiel. But the fierceness with which he’s grabbed still catches Crowley off guard. His mouth pops open and is quickly occupied. A hand grips his chin, forcing his head back. An arm snakes around his waist, possessively tight.

This is too emotional for a one-time encounter. Crowley should take it as a warning. But oh, it’s grand. Feelings explode inside him, a hot twist in his belly. 

Castiel steps into his space, and Crowley lets him in. Their bodies fit together magnificently. He unbuttons Castiel’s shirt and grips his tie. Yanks Castiel forward with a growl he does not mean to utter. Crowley should know better than this.

He breathes a satisfied “yes" when his back hits the mattress and Castiel fits between his legs. He opens them gladly. A whore is a whore is a whore, after all.

Castiel shifts, an evil slide of his body right up the crotch of Crowley’s slacks. Crowley tips his head back, gasping into the open space between them. Not good; he needs to stay in control. Teeth graze a line down Crowley's throat; lips and tongue tease the sting left behind.

Crowley unsteadily finishes Castiel’s shirt. Castiel’s tie is knotted loose, pooling on Crowley’s belly. 

Crowley looks down his body. His firm chest, his defined abdomen. The…odd lines of black script tattooed into his rib cage. Crowley slides a thumb across the top line. “Interesting spot for ink,” he says. “Is that…” A frown. “Enochian?”

“Yes,” Castiel says. “It’s for protection.”

Crowley chuckles. “You wear your own scars, I see. As I wear mine.”

Castiel gazes at him. There is something unsettling about his eyes. They don’t seem real. Lifeless and too-full-of-life all at once.

Crowley strokes a leg between Castiel’s with affected innocence. “May I call you Cas?” he asks.

“Yes.” The word is a groan that Crowley feels down between his legs.

“Cas,” Crowley repeats. Castiel licks his lips; a slow, dragged swipe of that delightful tongue. Crowley’s own mouth opens, wanting. 

He tries to force himself to focus. This is a job. Not pleasure. A _job_. “Tell me what you want, Cas.”

“Lie still,” Castiel says. An odd request. 

Odder, still, when his mouth moves down the cleft of Crowley’s chest. Hands brace on Crowley’s shoulders as lips meet the stem of the Y-incision on Crowley’s torso. Castiel follows it down his belly. A lap of his tongue, circling skin and soft hair. Crowley’s hips twitch, his arousal more prominent

Castiel undoes his pants. The slow unbuckling of his belt. The glide of the zipper down, and slacks to his knees. His cock is freed, blushed red and thick. 

Crowley groans, he tries to chew it back to no avail. “Would you like me to undress you?” he asks.

“No." Castiel’s eyes swallow Crowley’s length like an expert tongue. 

Crowley’s mouth goes dry. "Shall I...flip over for you, then?” he forces out.

“No.” Castiel’s tongue follows his eyes. He begins between the base of Crowley’s cock and his balls. His tongue strokes up the underside of his shaft, dipping into the ridge of the crown, and over to the slit. His tongue dabs inside, lips curled to suck just this small point. Castiel’s mouth is wet from his own saliva.

Crowley groans and drops his head back. His hips give a little buck, shaft bobbing under Castiel’s lips. “Cas,” Crowley hisses his name. “I’m…afraid I don’t do this often. I need you to- ah!” Castiel’s mouth curls around the head of his shaft and begins to suck. A gentle dip of his cheeks as he works.

Crowley’s legs open wider as Castiel’s fingers dig into the folds of his knees. The stretch makes him painfully aware of his own arousal. His ass and thighs spread, cock hard and wanting. “I need you to tell me what you want,” Crowley fights to regain the words. 

He starts to sit up, but he stops when Castiel’s head descends. Swallows him down in one ungodly motion. Crowley’s protest dies in a choked whimper. It's unbecoming of himself and his profession. But fuck, this is the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

Awkwardly balanced on his elbows, Crowley tries to hold his waist still. But he can’t help the little juts and spasms. Castiel’s lips sink to the curls at the base of his cock. His chin nudges Crowley’s balls, hair close enough to brush Crowley’s abdomen. Crowley’s legs split further, feet dangling ridiculously.

“You’re…very good at this.” Crowley tries to maintain decorum. It’s what he’s paid for, isn’t it?

When did Castiel slick his hand?

Castiel’s finger thrusts into him. Oiled with something, pushed in deep. A forgotten sensation. Crowley strangles out a sound, and his hips jump from the mattress. His movement earns a growl. 

“Castiel,” Crowley returns to his full name. “You need to let me - fuck!” The finger again, breaking his words on a startled curse. He opens his mouth to try again. But the words leave on another thrust, another moan. His hips jolt forward, trying to settle into rhythm.

Gods, Castiel is good at this, and Crowley wants to be greedy. If this is what Castiel wants, why not lie here and let himself be had?

But no, this is a business transactions. Payment for services rendered! Crowley sits back from Castiel’s mouth until Castiel is left with only the head. Cross eyes glare up at Crowley. 

“Let me do you,” Crowley suggests. The words come out rushed, unsteady. “I give a fine blow job, or maybe you’d prefer-”

“Crowley.” 

Did Crowley ever offer his name?

His surprise allows Castiel to get on top of him and suck him into his mouth. He slides wet fingers up the base of Crowley’s shaft. Lets him squish in his fist as his mouth bobs up and down. A fervent rhythm, eyes closed and determined, harder and faster.

Crowley tries to protest. Tries to warn him. But all that comes out is useless babble. He threads fingers into Castiel’s hair and tries to pull his client off. 

Castiel does not let go. He tears Crowley’s hands from his hair and grips them in his. Thumbnails dig into the wards on his wrists. 

Suddenly, a flash, blue and white hot. Something is wrong, something is wrong! Screaming inside, screaming outside.

Crowley comes into Castiel's mouth. Castiel swallows him completely. He lingers, lazy suckles on a softening shaft, while his thumbs circle the insides of Crowley’s wrists. Wrists that are no longer warded by the marks of the Grand Coven.

Crowley backs away, disoriented. The demon within batters against his remaining wards. “What are you?” he hisses.

He finds blue eyes gazing up at him. Glowing blue eyes.

Angel. _Shit._

Crowley scrambles off the bed, naked and sluggish. Can he run? Should he run? Mortifying in this state of undress, but maybe he'll survive?

What floor are they on? Third? Fourth? He eyes the window desperately. He would survive a fourth-story fall, right? It may break bones made brittle by his binding, but he would be alive!

What are the chances Crowley will escape, though? This is not any angel. It is an angel who _knows_ him. An angel who _hunted_ him. An angel who purchased him as a prostitute, who despises him so much that he would fuck him useless before killing him.

Crowley kneels and turns his head. “Do it,” he says.

“I’m not here to kill you, Crowley.”

This is worse. If the angel is not here to kill Crowley, it has come to torture him. Make him pay for the crimes of a past he can no longer remember. “Yes, I’ve sinned.” Crowley scowls at the floor. “Will you torture me, angel? It’s been awhile since I’ve had a good spank-”

“I’m not going to torture you, Crowley.”

“You’ll release me like this then?” Crowley thrusts out his hands, exposing his healed wrists. “Do you know what they’ll do when they find me untagged?” he spits. “They’ll kill me, if I’m lucky!”

“They will not kill you, Crowley. I won’t let them.”

“And who _are_ you?” Crowley gets up. “You seem to know exactly who I am-”

“I’m the one who did not come when you called.”

Crowley glares at him. “What are you talking about?”

“Do you remember me now?” Castiel asks.

Crowley has not crossed paths with an angel since his rebirth. Certainly not this one. And his life before the binding is a blur of blood and blank faces. “No,” he says.

Castiel grabs him by the neck. That blue light again, burning through his skin. Crowley tries to pull away, but Castiel's grip is like steel. “Think, Crowley,” he says.

Crowley can’t think. He only feels the pain of Heaven’s grace flooding through him. Scorching his flesh. Tearing his scars and his binds. And-

He’s in a room, on his stomach like a dying dog. Blood spills from open wounds on his back, staining the meager cot beneath him. Raven wing is stitched through his torn skin. His chest, neck, and wrists are already done. 

The demon inside has dulled to a haze. Crowley's once-gushing eyes have been reduced to a dim pink mist. “Castiel?” Barely audible, the name dribbles from his lips. “Can you hear me? Castiel?”

The dig of the blade, and a needle with black thread. Another pentagram stitched into his spine. 

Crowley no longer has the ability to scream. His face is a crusted mess of blood and salt. “I’m praying, Castiel.” Crowley tries to laugh. A cry without sound, his grimace bowed against sweat-stained arms. “I’m praying.”

The final stitch. The demon dies. He, the mortal scrap, collapses from the pain.

Crowley feels this pain again, reverberating through the healed skin of his neck. A surge of power shudders through him. 

Crowley grips the chin of the angel. Guilt shines in Castiel’s eyes. 

“You _heard_ me,” Crowley hisses.

“You were gone,” Castiel mumbles. He's exhausted. His hands shake as the light of Heaven fades from his eyes. Money is not the only thing this beast saved for him. He is one of the fallen, Crowley sees now. His power is limited.

“That’s enough,” Crowley mutters.

“Your back. Your chest.”

Crowley should let the damned thing burn himself out. It will be easier for Crowley to kill him with his full might unleashed. Then, he'll kill the witch who bound him in the first place. The one who located the demon tablet and destroyed his kingdom.

His kingdom… Because Crowley was a king once, wasn’t he?

Crowley traces curious fingers down the side of Castiel's face. “What were you to me?” he asks. Because Castiel was something. Friend. Enemy. Something important.

Castiel sighs. “I wonder that myself.”

"Why all this then?“

Castiel’s mouth curls, a bitter smile. "My own weakness.”

Crowley cocks his head. He does remember, somewhat. Castiel. The one he called to before he disappeared into the void of humanity. Friend and enemy and other.

“You have no intention of returning me to my pack.”

“No.” Castiel’s eyes lock on him. “We feel you can be useful.”

“We?”

“The Winchesters.” Castiel leans closer. “Do you remember them?”

It’s all so dim, a blur of events. Black eyes and a dive bar. A needle in his neck. Terrible karaoke.

Crowley grunts his frustration and shakes his head. “If I see them, perhaps. Were we friends, these Winchesters and I?”

Castiel’s jaw clenches. “You were...linked. For better or worse.”

“Ah.” Crowley chuckles. “We hated each other, then.”

“Complicated,” Castiel corrects. “You were always complicated.”

“I see.” Crowley quiets, gazing at his own wrists. He is accustomed to the sigils scarred into his skin. His now soft, lineless flesh is jarring. 

Crowley sighs and stands. “I'll get dressed-” He stops at a hand grabbing his. “Castiel?”

“I thought we could be off in the morning,” Castiel says.

Crowley smiles knowingly. “Ah, that’s right. You’ve given me a treat, but I’ve yet to return the favor-”

“I don’t want that.” The angel grits his teeth. “I mean...I do, yes. But I don’t…” He exhales. “It's not an obligation.”

Curiosity bids Crowley to step between Castiel’s spread knees. “You care about me,” he muses. “Don’t you, Cas?”

“Despite my better judgment.” Crowley gathers that this is meant to be a joke. Castiel’s face tucks to his stomach, nuzzling skin and scars. His hands flatten on Crowley’s back. 

Crowley arches on instinct, taking a breath. His weight sinks between Castiel’s legs. Castiel’s open mouth breathes kisses to his chest. 

Crowley can’t help but marvel. This thing, this powerful creature, putty beneath his hands! And he, no better.

His body seems to remember this Castiel well. It responds to the angel's touch like a lover. Bending, bridging, falling under his control. “What a magnificent beast I must have been,” Crowley hums.

Castiel’s smile traces his collarbone, following the incision of his bonds to his shoulder. Crowley is nearly in his lap. All it takes is Castiel’s fingers raked down the back of his neck. 

Crowley straddles Castiel's waist, a groan hidden in the angel’s hair. Thighs spread wide, he has no recourse for that wicked finger again. It nudges inside him, coaxing the crown of muscle. Crowley claws for the tie still wound around Castiel’s neck. Yanks it hard enough to force Castiel to him. Castiel’s mouth opens with wonder, inviting him to descend.

Two fingers this time. They thrust into Crowley, sudden and deep. Crowley’s body jolts forward, a hiss against Castiel’s cheek. 

“Are you going to fuck me or not?” Crowley breathes, trying to save face. He clenches a hand in Castiel’s hair and wrenches his head back. Dark eyes wait for him. A stone-still face, this time not unnerving. 

“Would you like to be fucked, Crowley?” Christ, just the sound of an angel saying that word... 

Crowley starts to speak, but those two blasted fingers again. “Yes!” bursts out of Crowley, hitching. His flesh springs with goosebumps and his pulse races faster. “Castiel,” he adds.

Castiel's eyes burn bright at the sound of his own name. Heaven's light, sullied with the predatory heat of his arousal. Crowley shivers. This creature could turn him to ash with a touch. But it won't, because it wants him. Because, for some reason, it needs him.

Castiel tosses Crowley to the mattress like a rag doll. With a snap of fingers, Castiel's pants are gone. The angel is blessed between the legs too, it seems. Crowley’s mouth waters. He can only imagine winding his lips around that girth. Trying to fit it inside him.

“Are you sure?” Castiel asks.

“Get over here,” Crowley grumbles. This has already been a roller coaster of a day, weaknesses and lost memories exposed. The last thing he needs is bloody child gloves.

Castiel seems to get it. He lowers to kiss Crowley, body bridged like porn. Crowley’s hand hooks in the small of his back, leaving nail marks in his wake. Castiel’s groan assures him that he’s on to something. His hips rock forward. Crowley grunts, lips parted to suckle on the tongue between them. 

Crowley shifts as Castiel pushes his thighs open. Does not mind the way his feet flap in the air. He shudders at the slide of that cock, oiled and large between his ass cheeks. Crowley spreads himself wider, knees bent, hands on Castiel’s waist. 

Castiel looks down at him. Crowley flashes a grin. “What are you waiting for, champ?” Castiel stops waiting.

My, he’s even larger than expected. A thrust, filled fat and immediate. Crowley tips his head back, gasping for air. His hands leave bruised imprints on Castiel’s waist.

“All right?” Castiel asks.

“Yes,” Crowley hisses out. “Damn it, yes, more.” He pushes his hips upward.

Castiel actually laughs, a soft whisper nuzzled against his neck. He lifts his head to kiss him as he drives forward again.

Crowley groans. His hands thread through Castiel's hair and back down his spine. He wants to touch everywhere. That he can’t is an abomination.

Castiel’s hands are more assured. One winds around the base of his cock, gives a tight stroke upward. “Fuck,” Crowley grits. Castiel’s tongue teases over his clenched teeth, a strange sensation. Crowley feels an answering throb between his legs. 

Is this truly an angel of the Lord? Who in the world taught him these things? …Was it Crowley? Christ, he has never lamented his lost memories more.

Crowley lifts his head, grabbing Castiel’s lips before he can pull back. He feels the angel’s chuckle against his mouth. Crowley squeezes fingers in the soft hairs at the base of his scalp. Yanks hard, only to get a purred response. Not a grunt or a curse of pain.

Castiel squeezes the hand around his cock. Works it up to quick strokes at the head. His thumb circles the crown. Dips over the slit. Crowley groans against his lips. 

Castiel's face buries in his throat again. This beautiful thing, leaving bruises on the side of Crowley’s neck. Replacing the bonds once there with his own mark. Crowley should not be pleased by the angel's assumption. But the thrill of ownership shoots through his body. He moans, unrestrained, as Castiel drives deep into him. 

“Castiel,” he stutters, hands hooked in Castiel’s shoulders hard enough to draw blood.

Castiel takes him. All of him. Fisting him, filling him, marking him, kissing him. Crowley shatters under his hands, spilling messy between their bodies. Castiel swallows his moan hungrily. 

Crowley’s hands stay tight on him, marking his body in kind. Castiel must be able to heal himself. But he doesn't. He mutters Crowley’s name. 

Crowley feels warmth inside and the satisfied twitch of hips. Castiel does not move. He hovers over Crowley, breathing against his neck.

Crowley turns his head. His lips bump a lazy kiss between Castiel’s eyes. He means to say something profound, or at the very least funny. All he manages is a pleased, “Mmm.”

Castiel smiles. He lies to the side, a heavy arm around Crowley’s waist. “Should shower,” Crowley mumbles. He closes his eyes.

When they open again, sunlight streams between cracked blinds. Crowley shifts, grimacing at his own stickiness. He wasn’t supposed to sleep.

There is still an arm around his waist. Breaths on his shoulder. A forehead on his temple. Castiel’s eyes are closed. 

Crowley sighs and drags a thumb across Castiel’s lips. “You don’t need to sleep, do you?” he asks.

“No.” Castiel does not open his eyes. But he kisses the pad of Crowley’s thumb.

Crowley chuckles. Morning warmth has left a blush across Castiel’s cheeks. Crowley thumbs across his face. Castiel opens his eyes. 

“I don’t suppose you’ve changed your mind about taking me with you?” Crowley asks.

“No.” Castiel does not raise his voice, but his expression negates argument.

“All right.” Crowley closes his eyes and tucks his face close to Castiel’s. “Five more minutes then.”

“We should shower.”

“We?” Crowley cracks an eye open. “Angels don’t need to shower, do they?”

“No.”

Both eyes open at this. Castiel is watching him. His expression is still, but Crowley somehow reads his humor.

Stifling a yawn, Crowley sits up. He feels a pleasant ache through his back. Through everything, really. He grunts, a faint limp visible as he wanders to the bathroom. He braces a hand on the door, turning to watch Castiel sit up.

“I can heal that,” Castiel offers.

Crowley laughs. He flips on the lights and glances at himself in the mirror. His body is caked in dried sweat and cum. Fresh bruises and bites blemish his skin. The wards from the side of his neck and his wrists are gone. He didn't dream it.

Crowley glances over his shoulder. “Come on then,” he says.

He doesn’t need to ask twice. By the time he’s flipped on the water, Castiel is already behind him. He nips at a bruise on Crowley's neck, making it darker, redder.

“Greedy thing, aren’t you?” Crowley fits his body against Castiel’s, gratified to feel the start of arousal against his back.

It defies logic, to be at ease with his natural enemy. But there is something about this bird that feels…safe, somehow. 

“Am I yours, Castiel?” Crowley means to tease, but the question carries a note of seriousness.

“Yes,” Castiel murmurs. He slides an arm around Crowley's waist and hooks a possessive hand against his stomach.

This doesn't make any sense. But Crowley still smirks as he slides out of Castiel’s grip. He steps into the shower and eases against the tiled wall. 

He looks out at Castiel, past the wall of steam. “What are you waiting for then?” he asks.

Castiel’s body weighs him into the tiles, warm water spilling between them. When Castiel kisses him, Crowley feels the low sound of ownership pressed between their mouths. Crowley hums his reply. Wraps arms around Castiel's waist and draws him close.

Whatever life he led before, he belongs to this damned thing, and Castiel belongs to him. They are tangled together, friend and enemy and other.

Crowley thinks he’s ok with this. 

*The End*

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I'm Daisy4Days on [Tumblr](http://daisy4days.tumblr.com) :)


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